


Millions of People

by lizzyr_03



Category: Harry Styles - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Harry Styles - Freeform, nonAU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:08:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27089146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizzyr_03/pseuds/lizzyr_03
Summary: The one where Harry Styles takes pity on a chick whose life has gone to shit and gives her a job as his personal assistant.This is fake. Real people. Fake story. Papa John's.





	1. prologue

prologue.

Let’s start this off by getting one thing straight. I am not in love with Harry Styles. 

Sure, I listen to his songs when they come on the radio, but I am not in love with him. In fact, I’m not sure if I could’ve picked him out in a crowd before I got this job. There’s this assumption that anyone who works with the great Harry Styles (male, female or any other gender) must immediately fall in love with him. 

I blame Howard Stern. 

But contrary to what shows up on the front page of the Enquirer or what comes out of Stern’s mouth, I am not a raging fan and I most certainly did not stalk him just so I could get this job. It was all just a very big coincidence. In fact, some may even say Harry stalked me. 

I had just come out of a pretty shitty job working at a modeling agency. I wanted to be a talent manager, but according to my boss I didn’t have what it takes. I believe her exact words were:

“Come back when you’re a little less Sunflower and a little more Kiwi.” Whatever the hell that means.

I spent four months trying to figure it out, bouncing around from barista job to hostess job all over New York. Eventually, I settled on a gig working front desk at some fancy spa in lower Manhattan. But it was hell. 

In hindsight, I could’ve handled things differently. I’d go to work, deal with bitchy socialites, then come home and drink wine and play scrabble with my roommate. I just didn’t really see a point in attempting a social life when my professional life had gone down the toilet. Everything was so much easier when I could look forward to a quiet night in after work where I could forget all of my troubles. 

I stayed home most nights and watched Bachelorette reruns, using the commercial breaks that I could’ve just fast-forwarded through to look up job openings. I had resigned myself to the fact that this was my life. Looking back on it, I realize just how pathetic I was. 

***

If you ask the tabloids, they’ll say that Harry came into my life like a white knight, taking pity on my misery and giving me a job. Harry would probably say the same thing, asshole, but that is not what went down. 

My roommate had finally convinced me to go out after about three months working at the spa. I put on a slutty dress and we went to some club that I didn’t pay much attention to. The lights were dark, and everyone was sweaty, but the dance floor was fun. At least, I think I was having fun, but I honestly don’t remember. I’d had one drink too many and the only thing I was sure of was that Macklemore was blaring from the speakers and hands were wandering. 

I don’t exactly remember his face or what he sounded like, I just remember the feeling of one hand on my ass and the other wrapped around my wrist, pulling me to a corner. Then I remember everything very clearly. 

His hands were all over me right away and his lips were on my neck. His breath smelled like alcohol and cigarettes and vomit and I told him to stop. 

I remember that. I told him to stop. 

I remember willing myself to push him off of me, to knock him to the ground and get out of that club, but my arms were too heavy, and they wouldn’t listen. I wanted to yell for someone to help me, I wanted to scream, but then his hands were around my neck and that stopped that. 

In my memory, it lasted hours. In my memory, I was stuck in that corner being pecked and manhandled by sweaty hands and putrid breath all night. My throat was closed, and my lungs were screaming for days. How was I alive? How was I surviving without oxygen for so long? In reality, it was probably about thirty seconds before I mustered up all the energy I had and kneed him in between the legs. I don’t think I hit anything important, (what a shame) but I caught him off guard and he staggered back for a second. 

The therapist I spoke to for a little while afterwards said I probably blocked his face from my memory, because all I can remember of that moment was his eyes. The dark brownish green color that reminded me of the vomit on his breath. They bore into me as he recovered and tried to grab me again, but my legs finally caught up to my mind and I ran. 

Hot tears raced down my face as I pushed my way through the crowded club, trying to get outside, trying to breathe. It was too hot, too crowded, not enough air, not enough space. I did my best to stay upright as the floor pitched left and right and I was thrown into what seemed like a million people packed into a shoebox. I remember them staring at me as I used each person I fell on to push myself back up to a standing position. I wanted to ask for help, I wanted to beg them to give me some of their air, but they all looked just like him.

I didn’t realize what was happening at the time but finally someone helped me outside. I made it out the door just in time to feel the bile creep up my throat and spill out onto the pavement. 

“Is everything alright?” Asked a deep, slow voice. I turned towards the source and saw a figure standing a few feet away from me. My vision was blurred, and I couldn’t make him out very well, but he looked scared, like I might break if he did or said the wrong thing. Although to his credit, I was obviously pretty broken already. 

I just nodded. 

“Do you need a ride home?” He asked and reached out to me but stopped when I flinched. “I won’t be in the car; I’ll just send you with my driver.” 

I finally looked up at his eyes. I couldn’t make them out very well through the tears in my own, but they seemed to be the first kind ones I’d seen in a long time. 

“I’m Harry, by the way.” He said, smiling a little. 

“I’m Betsy.” I said, looking back down at the pavement, still panting a little as the cold night air filled my lungs for what felt like the first time in days.

“Oh, she speaks.” I could hear his smile again. I just chuckled a little. “It’s nice to meet you, Betsy. Is that, like, short for something or is Betsy your actual name?”

I just looked at him again and watched a flush creep up his cheeks. 

“Sorry, there are more pressing issues to be addressed here.” He gestured to a large man dressed in all black standing behind him. “He can take you home.”

“How will you get home?” I asked, slowly standing back up. A look of concern washed over him as the ground moved again and I wobbled a little. 

“I can walk. I’m not staying too far away.” He said slowly moving closer and bracing himself to catch me if needed. 

I didn’t want him to touch me, so I focused all my energy on standing up straight. 

I didn’t want to get into a stranger’s car. I didn’t want to make another stupid mistake and have this night go from bad to worse. But what I did want to do was get home, and considering the fact that I had no idea where I was or how to do that, this was my best bet. And something about this man called Harry made me feel safer than I had in a long time. 

In hindsight, some of that could’ve been due to the raging amounts of alcohol that were coursing through my bloodstream. 

I don’t know why, or what I was thinking, but I let Harry take me home. I convinced him to stay in the car too. I didn’t want him to have to walk home, no matter how close he lived. I got very lucky that he was actually a good person who wanted me to get home safely. Things could’ve gotten way worse for me that night. 

He didn’t say anything on the drive back to my tiny apartment. I just told his driver the address and tried my best not to fall asleep to the gentle sway of the car as he navigated the busy New York streets. After what felt like simultaneously the longest and shortest ride of my life, we had pulled up to the front door of my building. 

“Can you make it inside alright?” Harry asked when I hesitated to open the door. 

I nodded but couldn’t seem to get the handle to work with me. He leaned towards me and I could feel the heat from his body get closer in the tight backseat. He reached towards me and suddenly I was back in the club, with hands where I didn’t want them and lips where they shouldn’t be and music so loud and air so thick that I couldn’t breathe or think straight. I swallowed a scream and pushed myself as far away from him as I could in the small car. Had to get away. 

“Oh, shit. I’m sorry.” He said as he leaned past me and opened the door, then paused for a moment. “You’re okay.” He said, leaning back to look me in the eye. 

Everything was still blurred by the tears and the alcohol, but I could see his eyes clearly this time. They were green, but not the muddy green that I’d been plagued with so much that night. They were clear and bright, like a lake you can see straight to the bottom of. They cut through the hazy image of the back of the car and somehow saw everything that had happened to me that night. I watched his eyebrows furrow and his mouth fall into a frown as the realization hit him and he leaned closer to me for a second, but then backed further away.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Betsy.” He said slowly and sincerely.

I just nodded. 

He got out of his side of the car and then appeared in the open door, running his hand through his hair. 

“Can I help you?” He asked. “Please?” 

I nodded again. 

We slowly made our way out of the car and up to my apartment. He told me everything he was going to do and everywhere he was going to have to touch me before he did, and as we creeped our way from the car to the front door, I let myself lean on him. The events of the night slowly sunk in as the adrenaline wore off and all I wanted to do was collapse, but I kept moving until we made it up the three front steps and stopped at the glass door. 

“Do you have your key?” He asked, with one hand around my waist and the other on my hand which was thrown over his shoulder. 

I nodded again and pulled the key from my purse. 

We stumbled inside after a quick ordeal of opening the door until he stopped for a moment. 

“Is there no elevator?” 

I shook my head. 

“What floor do you live on?” 

“Three.” 

He paused for a moment, seeming to consider something, but I just let my head fall onto his shoulder and my eyes flutter shut. I remember the scent of his cologne, mixed with a little sweat and something I couldn’t place. There was no alcohol though, no cigarettes, and no vomit. He sighed, then nudged me with the arm that was around my waist.

“Can I just carry you?” He asked. “Would that be alright?” 

I didn’t really care how I got to my bed at that moment, just as long as I could sleep soon. 

“I’m going to need you to say yes, or nod, or something.” He said after a moment or two of silence. 

“Yes.” I mumbled. 

“Okay,” He breathed a sigh and relaxed for a second, before focusing again. “I’m going to keep this arm here.” He said, squeezing tighter with the arm that was around my waist. “And put this one under your legs. Is that okay?” 

To this day, Harry swears that if I had been sober, I would’ve appreciated much more the chance to be carried up three flights of stairs by Harry Styles. Although, he’s reenacted it for me a couple of times (to my strong protestations, might I add) and I still do not get the hype. 

After that night, I didn’t really hear from him or talk to him again for a while. He got me up to my apartment and deposited me on my bed, but I was too tired and out of it to thank him or even talk much at all. I woke up the next morning wondering if the night had ever even happened or if I’d just dreamt all of it until I noticed a small slip of paper on my bedside table with a phone number on it. 

_Let me know you’re okay when you get the chance. I’m here to help._

_-Harry_

***

I called him a few days later, not expecting him to care too much or even answer. But he seemed invested in whatever the hell I had going on for some reason and invited me to coffee. After that, he came to visit anytime he was in New York, which (according to the tabloids I definitely didn’t read) was beginning to happen more often. We hung out pretty regularly for a few months, he introduced me to some of his friends in the city and then I started hanging out with them while he was away. 

It should’ve been strange. I should’ve been completely out of my element, being friends with one of the most famous men in the world, but it wasn’t strange at all. It wasn’t because I didn’t know who he was, because I did. It wasn’t because I hated his music, because I didn’t. It was just easy. He’d show up at my apartment when he got the chance and sometimes we’d go out but usually we’d just sit and watch romcoms. I’d complain about my job at the spa and he’d complain about things multi-millionaires complain about, and it was easy. 

One day, about three months after we met that night at the club, he walked into my apartment beaming. 

“Betsy, quit your job!” He said gallantly, before turning around to look at the door. “You should really lock that.” 

I just laughed a little from my place on the couch. “Yeah, wouldn’t want strangers walking in.” 

“I’m hardly a stranger.” He said sitting down on the other end of the couch. 

I just shook my head and laughed, but he still sat looking at me expectantly. 

“What?” I asked. 

“Quit your job.” He retorted, more serious this time. “I’ve had an epiphany.” 

“I’m going to need a little more explanation than that.” 

“Work for me.” 

And that’s how I found myself waking up in my swanky London apartment that I didn’t have to pay for on my first day as Harry Styles’ personal assistant.


	2. Crying to Kiwi

Chapter 1. Crying to Kiwi

Concerts are always the most boring part of the job. Every night, without fail, I end up tired of sitting backstage and find myself walking around whatever city we’re stopped at. Tonight we’re in London again, which should be boring, considering I’ve technically been living here for months now. Except, of the three months I’ve been Harry’s assistant, we’ve only spent about a week in London. We started with about a month in LA for rehearsals, then we were only in London for a week before going on the road, and we haven’t been back since. 

Tonight is the last night of the European tour, so we’re ending at the 02 Arena and then taking a week long break before gearing up for the North America leg, complete with press junkets, TV show appearances, and even a flash mob (that has yet to be choreographed, but that isn’t my job). My job consists of coffee runs and dry cleaning and scheduling and, to be honest, I’m pretty happy with it. It’s definitely not what I want to be doing for the rest of my life, but it’s nice to travel the world for free. Even if I do have to make daily runs to the grocery store whenever Harry forgets to pack his special toothpaste. At this point, I might just have to start packing for him. 

I step out of the cold and into the one backstage hallway I’ve memorized after two days of shows, hearing the familiar chords of Kiwi echoing around the cinderblock walls. 

“About two minutes.” Says someone whose name I should remember as I walk past the tech booth. One of the computer screens shows the stage, featuring a very brightly dressed Harry throwing himself around, not even singing anything. 

I stand there for a second watching him dance (if you could call it that). He just kind of stomps around onstage and throws water into the audience, and they eat it up. I’ve never understood the hype around Harry, he’s always seemed pretty normal to me. Don’t get me wrong, he’s one of my best friends and an all-around great person, but I don’t understand what makes him so much more memorable than any other singer. He says that’s one of the reasons he wanted me to be his assistant. 

“You don’t like me.” He’d say with a smile.

“I like you!” I’d quip back.

“You don’t like me as a singer.”

“I like you as a singer!” I always respond. 

“Okay, then stay and watch my next concert.” He’d retort. 

I would just roll my eyes. “I’d rather do anything else.” 

“And that’s why you’re my assistant.”

The teenage girls in the crowd scream louder than I thought possible when Harry spits his water into the air on the last beat of Kiwi, and I’m drawn back to reality. This is the part of the show that I see every day. As I make my way back to his dressing room from my nightly excursions and pass by the tech booth, I always catch this last moment. The moment when the crowd is the loudest they’ve been all night, hoping against hope that if they just scream loud enough, he’ll stay and do one more song or crack one more joke. But he never does. Every night, without fail, he blows his kisses goodbye and makes his way backstage, where I’m waiting. 

“Betsy!” Harry exclaims with a beaming smile when he walks into his dressing room. “What did you think of the show?” 

“Didn’t watch.” I state with a sweet smile, handing him a fresh bottle of water and a towel. “You’ve got fifteen minutes before VIPs start showing up.” 

“Don’t you worry, love, I’ll be done in ten.” He says, ripping off his sweat soaked shirt and slipping into the small bathroom where I’ve already turned on the shower. 

“They can wait if you’re not.” I call after him, closing the door to the bathroom before he pulls his pants down too far. He really has no decency when it comes to decency. 

He opens the door a crack to smile out at me. “That’s why you’re my favorite.” 

I just roll my eyes and push him back into the bathroom. 

Harry and I have our post-concert routine down pretty smoothly by now. He takes a shower while I peruse twitter and Instagram hashtags, finding the highlights to share with him (both good and bad) before any family or friends visit him in his dressing room. Then he meets those with VIP tickets, and I send him on his way. Sometimes we keep it professional and each go to bed at a responsible hour, but most nights I put up my PA hat and we go out, or just head back to Harry’s room and watch a movie with Mitch and Sarah. Ever since he got called out on the Graham Norton Show, Harry has been very adamant about making sure his closest staff and band members have the same quality hotel stay as he does, so he and I are almost always in rooms next to each other. He says it’s so I can be on hand if he needs anything, but in reality he likes to show up in my room at one in the morning to watch Nicholas Sparks movies and shitpost from my twitter account. 

After about a month and a half of touring, I’ve been able to work out that an average post-concert shower takes just about as long as it takes for the “Larry” stans to connect something from that night’s show to Louis Tomlinson. So, by the time Harry has dried off and made his way out to me for the highlights, I have about thirty seconds to filter out anything concerning the sensitive topic. 

Except tonight, the “Larry” posts start almost immediately. 

**I swear to god Louis Tomlinson is standing in front of me at the Harry Styles concert rn #larryisreal**

**LOUIS. FUCKING. TOMLINSON. THAT’S THE TWEET.**

**Never thought I would cry during Kiwi until I saw Louis Tomlinson cry during Kiwi #nooneissafe**

**Kiwi is actually about Louis Tomlinson’s secret affair and here’s the proof (a thread)**

**Well fuck me for believing there were some Harry Styles songs that wouldn’t make me cry**

**Freddie Tomlinson is actually Harry Styles’ son, prove me wrong.**

**Every reason why every Harry Styles song is about Louis Tomlinson (a thread)**

“So, what’s the scoop?” Harry asks, strongly resembling a very hot Grandpa, walking out of the bathroom in brown flare pants and no shirt. Except I can’t even make fun of him for it because I’m a little focused on the fact that Louis is everywhere. Seriously, I can’t find a single post that doesn’t have the words Louis Tomlinson in it. 

“Did you see Louis at the show tonight?” I ask, deciding the best way to go about this is to be direct. Harry isn’t the type of person to beat around the bush when there is something serious to discuss. 

“Was he here?” He asks, his playful smile falling for a second, but then returning in full force. “The wanker didn’t even tell me he was coming. Might’ve tried a bit harder if he had.” 

“Impossible.” I quip, returning my attention to my phone. “Try hard.” 

He just smirks a little and rubs the towel through his hair. “So, I’m guessing that’s the majority of the reactions from tonight, then.” 

I nod. 

He sighs and I look up in time to see him let his face fall for a second. His eyes darken and the corners of his mouth tug down. “Alright.” Then he blinks a few times, and his trademark smile returns. I’ll never know how he can do that so easily. “I’ll be out to the meet and greet room soon.” He says. “And give me a warning or something if Louis is coming.”

I nod and quickly slip out the door, getting hit by the sound of about ten teenage girls and their mothers getting a glimpse at Harry putting his shirt on as they make their way to the holding room. 

“Do you think Louis is in there?” I hear one of them whisper to her mom. 

“I hear he likes older women.” Says one middle aged woman to another. It seems like neither of them have daughters present, which is a little creepy if you ask me. 

I push my way past the small crowd of fans that are being ushered towards the meet and greet room by a security guard, and eventually make it to the VIP green room where all the celebrity guests and family members spend their time before or after the show. Usually there are one or two people in there, at least some family members or an old friend, but the room is empty tonight. Louis must’ve left when the show ended. 

I stand in a corner and watch as Harry dazzles the ten lucky recipients of Capital FM’s VIP ticket raffle with his normal personality and run of the mill charm. Really, I don’t understand why, but all of these fans look like they’ll pass out if he makes eye contact with them one more time. He takes pictures and signs autographs and asks them if they liked the show, just like every other celebrity does. Then he shoots me the signal (scratching the back of his neck) and I make up some dumb excuse as to why he needs to make it back to his dressing room and we scurry off before someone else can touch his hair without permission. 

Everyone always asks me what it’s like to work for Harry. When he goes to all of these really important interviews, I stand behind the camera and watch him dazzle the public with that personality that has become so familiar to me. Then at some point during or after the interview, an intern or production assistant always nudges me, without taking their eyes off him, and says something along the lines of:

“What is it like to work for him?” or “How great is it to spend all of your time with Harry Styles?”

I usually just say he sucks at Scrabble. 

But here, walking back to his dressing room, where I watch his façade slowly crack away after a solid thirty minutes of being hugged and manhandled by teenage girls. Here, where I watch the fatigue set in and his shoulders droop little by little as we get closer to his dressing room and all I want to do is get him there faster so he can collapse onto the couch just a second sooner. Here is where I decide it is pretty great to work for Harry Styles. Not because of his fame, or his money, but because after ten years of being mobbed by fans everywhere he goes, he still does his best to devote even a second of his time to each person, being sure to give them each their own moment with him. Even when the last thing he wants to do is take another picture or sign another autograph, he does. 

He leans against the door frame, letting his head hit the wall and his eyes flutter closed, while I take a second to punch in the code. The door unlocks and I push it open, holding it for him to enter. He stays there with his eyes closed for a second, so I ruffle his hair and he opens one eye. Clear green peaking out at me from under his eyelashes.

“The sooner you pack up, the sooner you get home.” I say with a kind smile. 

He just huffs and makes his way into the dressing room. 

“I’ll call you in the morning. Boarding starts at 9:25 so I’ll meet you at 8:15.” I say from the doorway. 

He looks like such a child as he throws his gazillion dollar belongings carelessly into a Gucci day-bag. 

“Isn’t this your job?” He says with a smirk, trying to shove his toiletry container into the already full bag. 

“I’d be doing a much better job of it if it were.” I say. 

He holds out the overflowing bag to me as if to say _I’d like to see you do better._ I take the bag from him and rearrange a few things as he flops face down on the couch. 

“Thank you.” He mumbles into the cushions as I zip up the bag and sit next to him. 

“I just shoved a few things into a bag, Harry, no big deal.” I say. “Plus, you’re paying me.” 

I hear him chuckle softly before he flips over so he can make eye contact with me. A few half-dry strands of hair fall over his eyes and he folds one arm behind his head and okay, yeah, he's attractive. In a purely scientific way. Like, it's just factual.

“You’d still be here if I weren’t though, right?” He asks, a hint of self-doubt peaking through his tired confidence. 

I guess this is why I don’t see the unwavering appeal of Harry Styles. Yes, it is sometimes staggering when he flops on the couch and could be in another Gucci campaign, but a large part of his attraction is the confidence that he shows the public; it makes him mysterious and intriguing. But, when you hear the Lord and Savior Harry Styles (the fans’ words, not mine) ask you if you are his friend because you want to be, or if it’s just because he’s paying you, it’s a jarring reminder that he is still a regular person. 

“I don’t know, you can be quite the pain in the ass sometimes.” I quip, then wink at him. 

He smiles. 

A real smile. Not the one he dons for the VIP fans, or interviewers. A real smile. One that makes the skin around his eyes crinkle and his dimples sink even further into his cheeks, and I relax knowing that his mood isn’t all tired bones and self-doubt anymore. 

Before I can snap out of the daze I’ve unwittingly been put in, he reaches behind his head and grabs a throw pillow, tossing it at me. 

“You’re not all sunshine and rainbows yourself, you know.” He retorts and I throw the pillow back at him. He takes that as an invitation and suddenly he’s leaping across the couch, smiling wide, and pinning me to the cushions by my shoulders. 

He’s strong, but I’m quick, and I sweep his legs out from under him until he’s toppled onto the floor of the dressing room with a thud and a groan. I worry for a second if I’ve actually hurt him (it wouldn’t be the first time) until he lets out a loud high pitch laugh that I always tease sounds like a witch’s cackle. 

I let out a sigh once I’ve confirmed he is intact, then let myself laugh as well. He reaches his hand out for me to help him up and I take it, second guessing his motives just a second too late. Before I know it, he’s pulled me to the floor too and I’m on top of him next to the couch. I brace myself on my elbows, but my knee is between his legs and his hand is wrapped around my waist to soften the blow. He laughs so hard his eyes squeeze shut and I let my head fall next to his ear as I laugh too, feeling my breath hit his neck when I rest my forehead on the floor. I lay there for a second to catch my breath and I feel his breathing slow beneath me; his chest rises and falls a few times as his laughter dies out. When I pick my head back up, his eyes are open and brighter than they’ve been all night, but he still seems apprehensive. 

“I’d still be here.” I say. “Even if you weren’t paying me and you were the worst singer I’d ever heard.” 

His face is so close to mine that I can feel his breath on my cheek when he lets out a relieved sigh. Gravity has swept his hair away from his face now and I can clearly see the flecks of blue in his green eyes. The crinkle between his eyebrows deepens and his eyes go soft as they look into mine the same way they did that night in the back of his car, like if he focused hard enough he could learn all my secrets. 

“Although you don’t really have to worry about that.” I add. “You’ve got millions of people lined up to be your assistant if I ever get sick of you.” His grip tightens around my waist for a second, so fast that I might have imagined it. 

His eyes search again, except this time they wander over my entire face and he cracks a little smile. “I’m not really interested in millions of people.” He says simply. But before I can fully process his words, the door opens.


End file.
